


For Which of My Bad Parts

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "dozens of times now", 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley Has All the Genders (Good Omens), M/M, Other, and are so so clueless, historical "accuracy", they pine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: The Arrangement has been born but what is it supposed to grow into? Or, in which an angel and a demon are pining morons for literal centuries.Title from Much Ado About Nothing Act 5 Scene 2 lines 44-45. Look it up if you want feels.





	1. Congratulations, Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I always headcanoned that the Arrangement began because one or both of them fucked up real bad and things got out of hand. I settled on the version from The First Arrangement (which you should read before you read this) but it got me thinking about the “dozens of times now” that Crowley mentioned in 1601, so that’s how this happened. I seem to be trying to document every interaction between Aziraphale and Crowley that the series left out so RIP me.

7 July 1456 Notre Dame Cathedral

Among the crowds outside the cathedral, one person hung someway back. Her eyes were hidden twice behind both the veil that hung off her fashionable conical headdress and her dark eyeglasses. Her dress was cut in the Burgundian cotehardie fashion, glossy, black brocade slashed to reveal a blood red kirtle beneath it. She looked like she was some kind of aristocrat, perhaps the lesser daughter of one of King Charles’ many affairs. As many people were aware, her most of all, looks could be deceiving; she was not illegitimate French royalty, she was not even French at all.

The demon, Crowley, scanned the crowds from behind her veil and eyeglasses. She knew she shouldn’t be there, knew that if anyone knew she was here she would have to cause some trouble, enough that it may ruin this momentous day. She could even hear it now, Isabelle Romée’s desperation to have justice for her daughter. She would slither up to her and ask “Is this really justice? The men who killed her still walk free.” But she was not here for her work. She was here to see Aziraphale’s triumph. She knew she owed that much to him, at least.

The Archbishop of Rheims exited the cathedral to find a crowd of thousands waiting for him. He had delivered sermons to as many, and to people of far greater importance that the peasants of Paris, but somehow, by some miracle, he had a sense of the importance of what he was doing. He looked out at the people of Paris and understood, for just a moment, what Jeanne d’Arc had meant to them, how a young country girl from a town nobody had even heard of had somehow restored their King and kicked the English out of France. Jeanne d’Arc had given them back their homeland, had rid them of the fear that a soldier could breach their city at any time and take their lives for no reason other than the royal political game. The Archbishop extended his arms and spoke.

“In consideration of the request of the d'Arc family against the Bishop of Beauvais, the promoter of criminal proceedings, and the inquisitor of Rouen . . .” He began.

Crowley stepped forward, in search of Aziraphale, meandering her way through the crowd with casual arrogance. But there was not yet a glimpse of white in the crowd, no sign of the angel.

“We, in session of our court and having God only before our eyes, say, pronounce, decree and declare that the said trial and sentence, being tainted with fraud, calumny, iniquity, and contradiction, and manifest errors of fact and of law . . .” The Archbishop continued.

There! Crowley’s eye was caught by a flash of white in the doorway of Notre Dame, Aziraphale!

“. . . to have been and to be null, invalid, worthless, without effect, and annihilated.” The Archbishop had to raise his voice to be heard over the celebrations of the crowd.

Crowley moved with more purpose now, her strides long and fast, like a cobra preparing to strike.

“We proclaim that Jeanne did not contract any taint of infamy and that she shall be and is washed clean of such!” The cheers that erupted from the crowd were a cacophony of joy. This was not a place for Hell, nor demons, but still Crowley moved, weaving her way through the crowds to Aziraphale.

“I do hope he’s alright,” Aziraphale was saying to the deacon beside him, “he really ought to see a doctor about his back and get out of the bell tower sometime.”

The deacon just nodded absently, it was not the first time he had heard this, so he wondered off, probably to discuss the best way to write the letter ‘s’ on biblical manuscripts. Thus far, the preference had been to write them not unlike the letter ‘f’, but with the advent of the printing press in recent years, they were looking for ways to differentiate themselves.

“Congratulations, angel,” came a hiss in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Crowley!” he said with badly concealed delight, that is, to say, that he was pleased to see her in a completely ordinary and reasonable way, “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I couldn’t miss your moment of triumph now, could I? I mean you spent what? 150 years working on her town? And now everyone has decided that she was fantastic.”

“Well, erm, thank you,” said Aziraphale, peering up at Crowley (did she have to wear heels when she was already so tall?). Ordinarily, he would feel the touch of kindness and he would give thanks to Her for blessing humans with such a capacity for love. But this was Crowley, a demon, he wasn’t supposed to be kind, or to have any capacity to love, so this had to be something else, something that – Aziraphale suspected – was exclusive to Crowley and Crowley alone.Her

“I mean really, what’s so bad about changing your look up every once in a while?” Crowley said, gesturing to her own clothing.

“Well, nothing really,” said Aziraphale, who had always been rather impressed by Crowley’s ability to wrap gender around her little finger and still come out looking fabulous every time. He suspected the sin of Pride had always helped and had make a mental note to ask about it someday (mental notes of this variety had been piling up for quite some time). “But humans don’t really like it when people erm, deviate from what’s supposed to be normal, do they? I suppose they just all got a bit carried away.”

“It’s Leviticus all over again, isn’t it?” She leaned towards Aziraphale, grabbing his billowy sleeves and gracefully weaving the two of them through the crowds. People were dispersing away from the cathedral now, and the streets of Paris were so full of people you could barely make out the cobblestones beneath their feat. Miraculously, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves in a sweet little boulangerie that had somehow escaped the notice of the crowds.

Aziraphale offered Crowley a smile as he tore into a piece of fresh brioche, so recently out of the oven that steam wafted from the bun as he did so. Crowley quietly stored the smile for later pursual.

“So, have they gotten over the whole . . .” She gestured in the vague direction of England.

“Not quite, I think I have to make sure the legacy of Jeanne d’Arc lasts, as well as the acquittal for her crimes,” Aziraphale said between mouthfuls, the brioche really was terribly delicious. He paused and looked at Crowley, he was not going to ask for help, no, there was far too much at stake, even after last time. Besides, Aziraphale was not the one who did Tempting. Is anyone was going to ask it would be Crowley, even if it would be easier to just say something.

Fortunately, Crowley got the message, she pulled a coin from the purse that hung from her girdle. “Toss you for it?” She said, her expression unreadable.

“Tails.” Aziraphale watched the coin with care, as though he were expecting Crowley to cheat, but she didn’t, the coin never disappeared from view.

“Heads,” Crowley said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you with this one. I’ve got orders to head to Spain anyway,”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, realising that Crowley truly had only come to Paris to see him, it left an odd taste in his mouth that seemed to pitter down into his stomach.

“And I fancy a nap,” Crowley continued, “So if you need anything, you may have to come by in person.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, still distracted by his thoughts.

“So, I guess this is goodbye. For now.” She said, adjusting her veil.

“Yes, erm, goodbye.” Said Aziraphale, not sure how he should feel about this at all.

“Goodbye, angel.” And with that she was gone, Leaving Aziraphale to his brioche and the sounds of the city.


	2. He Would Hold Out His Hand

1481 – Navarre, Spain

Crowley awoke to the smell of brimstone, a scent that permeated the air with the reckless abandon of mud to a child in a white smock. In his half-asleep state, he was disappointed. He had hoped, that if he was to be woken up at all, it might be, if he was particularly lucky, Aziraphale. As he shook himself awake, the thought dissolved from his mind by force of habit. It did not do to hope for things that could never be, and Crowley knew that he would only hurt himself by thinking about it more.

“Crowley.” Ah yes, that was definitely the voice of Hastur and by the sound of it, the Duke of Hell was not in a good mood. Nor was he ever, in fact, if someone were to see him smiling or doing anything else that might denote a good mood, the best course of action would be to immediately start running in the other direction.

  
“Yes, Lord Hastur?” Crowley made himself sit up, and tried to pretend he had been asleep for the normal amount of time (8-10 hours) so he could pass it off as a trick to blend in with humans, and not, say, 25 years in which he had most definitely not dreamed about what it might be like if he and a certain angel somehow had the chance to run away from it all, because demons do not sleep and they most certainly do not dream, and if they did, they absolutely would not dream about angels.

“I’ve been sent here to give you a . . .” Hastur looked like he was being forced to watch something truly horrible to him, like a child smiling at their parents, or a particularly sweet wedding speech. “. . . a commendation.”

“Really?” Said Crowley before immediately correcting himself, “Oh yes, of course, what’s it for? I’ve just been doing so much evil lately it’s hard to keep track.”

“This Spanish inquisition thing,” Hastur said, “It’s been very . . . popular downstairs, now if you could just convince a few inquisitors to start pocketing the money they confiscate . . .”

“Oh? Oh. Yes, of course.” Crowley sprung up, ready to see if there was some way to get more information out of Hastur, but Hastur was already sinking into the ground below.

“Shit,” Crowley said to the empty room.

It would be possible to fill pages about what Crowley did next, about his existential guilt and anguish. But it can all be explained very simply: he spent 3 days doing what he always did in times of crisis, getting utterly blackout drunk before seeing a ray of hope. But to access it, he would need to visit his technical ‘home’: Hell.

The record room of Hell was its own special form of punishment. After all, bureaucracy was an invention Hell was particularly proud of. The organisational system was changed every hour, and it was never one that made any sense. When Crowley arrived, the system was based on how well Dagon, Lord of the Files, thought they could make an origami swan out of them.

“Crowley, what do you need?”

“Just checking up to see if we have any reports about what the er- other side are up to?”

“’course we do,” Dagon said.

“I’m trying to track down a specific angel, I think he’s trying to er-stop the new Spanish Inquisition, and I’d hate for all my hard work to go to waste.” Crowley sauntered past Dagon, tracing his finger down the walls stacked floor to ceiling with files.

“Which angel?” They asked.

“The Principality Aziraphale.” It was strange for Crowley to say the name coldly, like it meant nothing to him, like the name didn’t only deserve to be spoken with soft reverence at the very least.

Dagon was the only being who could understand the filing systems of the file room, mostly because they were the evil mastermind behind it all. They pulled a file out from near the shoe of a demon that looked like a small child until you got too close, and handed the file to Crowley.

“I’ll need that back, it’s the only copy,” Dagon said before going back to trying to think up new filing systems.

Crowley left without saying goodbye. On Earth this might have been considered rude, but in Hell it was commonplace. Still, Crowley, who spent most of his time on Earth, liked to think that his rudeness was a little act of rebellion, after all, what were demons if not rebels.

He opened the file: It was filled to the brim with pictures, despite the fact that the camera wouldn’t be invented for some time yet. Pictures of Aziraphale guarding the Eastern gate of Eden, pictures of him at the Ark, the tower of Babel, with Moses, and all the way to Notre Dame. Crowley felt his stomach give a lurch, he could see himself in the background of several of the photos. Had anyone seen this? They can’t have. If they had, Crowley would have been, well- it didn’t really bear thinking about.

The file had to be destroyed, that much was clear, but there was also a rather helpful image of Aziraphale in Rhodes, helping survivors of the earthquake. Right, well then. Crowley snapped his fingers.

Rhodes, like the rest of what was currently the Ottoman Empire, was rather warm at this time of year, not unlike Spain. Crowley supposed he was relieved that Aziraphale hadn’t been posted somewhere in the Arctic, that would have been unpleasant. Aziraphale was right there too, if he had had any faith in Her left, he might have offered a prayer of thanks.

“Aziraphale!” He called to get his attention.

Aziraphale shot upright, “Crowley!” He said, most definitely not pleased to see him, angels are never pleased to see demons.

The times where people would greet one another with a kiss or an embrace were long gone in this part of the world, a simple clasping of hands was all the contact they got. It was rather unsatisfying, like a starving person being given their least favourite food, it was something, and that was wonderful in itself, but it wasn’t quite . . . enough. It was just enough to make you think about how much more there was to have.

“Crowley, is everything all right?” Aziraphale asked.

What Crowley wanted to say, what he would have said if somehow, he could be sure Heaven and Hell couldn’t be listening, was something like this, “I very literally woke up on the wrong side of the bed and now there’s something actually sickening happening in Spain and I did want your help with it all but then I had to find you so I went looking for your file in Hell and they know way too much about you and now I’m worried they’re going to find out about our friendship and our Arrangement but I don’t want to tell you anything because I’m scared you’ll go running back to heaven with your tale between your legs and I would miss you a lot.”

But what he actually said was a very articulate “-erm . . .”

“I thought you were in Spain, have they moved you?” Aziraphale asked, deliberately not getting his hopes up.

“Erm, nope.” Crowley tried to get a handle on everything he wanted to say and what he actually should say, “Tell me, have you heard of the Spanish Inquisition?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve been here for the last while and I don’t really hear a lot from outside the Ottoman Empire as it were.”

“Well then, angel.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a smile full to the brim with self-loathing, “Hold onto your hat.”

* * *

It took Crowley several hours to explain the Spanish Inquisition to Aziraphale. There were two reasons for this: The first was that Aziraphale was really quite horrified by it all, and he kept stopping Crowley to exclaim or make sad faces; The second was that Crowley was trying to talk while coming up with a plan at the same time.

“It sounds rather like you’re asking me to go to Spain and fix your mess,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t really do this, I just sort of . . .”

“Took credit for it?”

“Look, I get it, but are you going to help me or not?”

Aziraphale scrunched his face in indecision. “I’m really not supposed to leave my post here. Gabriel was very clear.”

“Angel, please, you know how much I hate asking, but I’m asking, I’ll take over here for you, no one needs to know,”

Aziraphale took a deep (and completely unnecessary breath), “We can toss a coin. Leave it to chance, I suppose.” He pulled a coin from his drawstring purse, looking at Crowley in question.

“Tails, I suppose.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tossed the coin, catching it with a deftness that his corporation didn’t look like it should be able to do, he examined the coin. “Heads, I’m afraid. I guess you’ll have to clean up your own mess.”

“But-“

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed, “If you can get anyone out of Spain, especially if the inquisitors are distracted by stealing, I’ll say it was me, no one needs to know.” Aziraphale smiled slightly.

Crap. This was too much for Crowley. He’d lost the coin toss, Aziraphale could send him on his way without any guilt, but he didn’t. Every time Crowley expected Aziraphale to let him in, to help him, he seemed to go back to being a typical angel of Heaven. But then, just when Crowley didn’t expect it anymore, he would hold out his hand, or wing to shelter him form the rain.

“Sure thing, angel,” Crowley said softly, before bringing back the bravado, “We’ll get you a promotion at this rate.”

Aziraphale gave him a small laugh that definitely didn’t make Crowley’s heart hurt. He turned to go.

“I’m supposed to be sent to the Vatican next,” Aziraphale said, making Crowley stop and look at him again, “to check on the Renaissance, it getting a bit corrupt these days. Does that mean I might see you there?”

Crowley tried to read Aziraphale’s expression, was it hopeful? Did Aziraphale really want to see him? He adjusted his glasses and gave Aziraphale his (aptly named) devil-may-care smile. “I’ll be in Florence,” he said, “s’not that far away when you think about it.”


	3. You’re Going to Have to do Your Work Eventually

1503 Florence

Crowley lay sprawled on the floor of the workshop. “I don’t see why you have to paint it at all, really. The sketch is just fine.”

“You would say that, Signor Crowley,” Leonardo laughed, “Aren’t you supposed to be leading me down the path to Hell?”

“Not necessarily you, specifically,” Crowley said lazily, “just sort of . . . people, in a general sense.”

“Anyone I know?” Leonardo asked, matching Crowley’s tone.

“Oh definitely,” Crowley smiled, menace clear in his voice, but it was not directed at Leonardo.

Leonardo turned around to look at Crowley properly, away from the easel he was currently struggling over. “Tell me about the flying machines again.” He said.

Far away from the Guild of San Luca, down a tiny alley in Il Vaticano, an angel was eating figs wrapped in prosciutto.

“Aziraphale.” Naturally, he couldn’t enjoy the few delights Il Vaticano allowed it’s citizens.

“Oh! Gabriel, what a pleasant surpri-“ Aziraphale said even though it was nothing of the sort.

“The reports upstairs say that the Renaissance is slowing down. That the people are only giving money to the church for corrupted reasons yadda yadda yadda.” Gabriel sat down in front of Aziraphale, not even bothering to pretend to ask or to stand until he was invited.

“So, -erm, what would you like me to do?” Aziraphale mourned the loss of his rather enjoyable snack and accepted his fate. There was always work to do.

“Fix it! Aziraphale. I mean, obviously.” Gabriel laughed his hollow, tin-like laugh.

“Right.” Aziraphale sat back. Right. And of course, before he could come up with a more articulate response, Gabriel was gone.

In the year 2019, had he not had other things to worry about, Aziraphale could have made the journey from Il Vaticano to Firenze in 3 hours and 2 minutes, according to popular mapping software. If Crowley were the one driving, it could be done in 2 hours. However, in 1503, it took 7 hours and 23 minutes precisely. With a generous miracle, it could have taken seconds, but if Gabriel had wanted him to travel by miracle, then Gabriel would have done it himself. If someone was to imagine miracles as costing something, then travelling like that was very pricy and had the potential to attract quite a bit of unwanted attention.

So Aziraphale had travelled by Hungarian suspended carriage (one of the perks of being liked by the Pope) and read his copy of De Laudibus Sanctae Crucis by Rabanus Maurus, and if it happened to be a first edition, well, that was pure coincidence, after all, angels don’t care about that sort of thing.

As his carriage drew close to the city, and the skyline of Firenze became visible, Aziraphale found he was far too distracted to read. He put his book down, carefully marking the page with a woven ribbon, and looked out at the city. His distraction was, of course, that he was hoping to eat a Florentine steak before he had to leave, and had nothing to do with a set of serpentine yellow eyes that he knew were housed somewhere in the city.

* * *

“You’re going to have to do your work eventually, Signor Crowley,” Leonardo said, still struggling over the same canvas he had been working on several days earlier.

“That’s rich coming from you.” Crowley gestured at the unfinished paintings that littered the studio,

“Ah, my friend, this is all you, I cannot possibly take the blame for diabolical influence.” They both laughed at that.

Crowley knew full well that he wasn’t supposed to form attachments to humans, but somehow, he always managed to. Even after how terrible the last time had turned out. But Leonardo Da Vinci was nothing like John Holland, he was far too smart for one thing. Crowley had ambled into the Guild of San Luca looking to ruin a few holy paintings and sculptures, but instead had been stopped by a man in his early fifties, who had looked at him and had seen far too much. Leonardi Da Vinci had somehow known the exact two things about Crowley that nobody was supposed to know: “Signor, it is clear as day that you are suffering from lovesickness, you would have to be blind not to see it!” and “You are not of this world also, I see.”

For some reason that only made sense in Leonardo’s eccentric mind, there was nothing wrong with being friends with a demon, while also going to church every Sunday. Leonardo was good at toeing the line between the two worlds. He also figured it did no harm to be friends with a demon, since if any of the priests knew about his private love life, then he would be condemned to Hell anyway.

“Salaì!” Leonardo barked, gesturing to his empty wine goblet, “Where has he gotten to now?”

“He’s probably out the front looking for trouble.” Crowley said, he enjoyed the antics of Il Salaino, who would be referred to as Leonardo’s sugar baby in the 21st Century, but there was not yet a word for it in 1503.

“Ah, I really ought to be stricter with him,” Leonardo laughed, “but I can’t say no to him, I think you are familiar with the problem, yes?”

Crowley sighed. It was a blessing and a curse having someone who knew. It was nice to have someone to talk to when it all became for too much, but the teasing was something else, something only a human as eccentric as Leonardo would dare to do. “Yeah, I know the problem, but at least mine isn’t 30 years younger than me.”

“Hah!” Leonardo laughed again, “You have a point, but I did not know I would grow to care for him, and I certainly did not care for him in the way you are implying until he was old enough to run away again if he wanted.”

“Would you have let him go?”

“Of course. There are lines even I do not cross, my friend,”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully into his goblet.

At the city wall, Aziraphale had availed himself of his carriage and walked the rest of the way. He was trying to come up with some sort of plan. He had an intense dislike of open-ended jobs like this one. Oh it was all very easy for Gabriel of course, to ask him to fix corruption while Niccolò Machiavelli was Second Chancery or while the Medici’s still held power. It was difficult to turn people towards the light when they already had hearts of darkness.

Still, some part of his mind wondered to what Crowley was doing in all of this. He had said he would be in Florence, hadn’t he? Perhaps this was Aziraphale’s chance to make use of this strange Arrangement of theirs into something. This part of his mind was very, very small but loud.

Aziraphale found that his feet had taken him to the Guild of San Luca, patron saint of artists. This was where Aziraphale could find out who was commissioning who and for what. He entered the building and was in awe of what he found.

The entrance hall was full of apprentices gossiping in paint-spattered smocks. They formed colourful enclaves and passed about food and drink. The building was so overwhelmingly loved that Aziraphale almost had to leave. He revelled in it. One apprentice, a boy with a full head of curly hair and a mischievous smile, approached him.

Gian Giacomo Caprotti da Oreno was his name, but nobody had ever called him that. Everyone just called him Salaì or Il Salaino, meaning unclean or devil. It was fitting, especially when he was a child and had tried to rob Leonardo and run away on several occasions. Of course, he rather enjoyed his time with Leonardo now, and not just for salacious reasons, he was learning a lot, like how to figure out a person just by looking at them, the way Leonardo did.

On a few occasions, after too many glasses of wine supplied by Salaì, Leonardo would talk Crowley into trying to sketch. Crowley would sketch the man Salaì saw before him, and when he was done, or he sobered up even a tiny bit, the page would catch fire.

“This way, Signor,” said Salaì, in a tone that he hoped sounded stern, “Master Da Vinci and his friend are waiting for you.”

Salaì led a rather confused Aziraphale through rooms filled to the brim with colour and laughter, paintings and sculptures, and their artists. It was a sight to behold.

“Salaì, you have taken your time. Where is the wine?” Leonardo demanded when he hears his studio door swing open.

“I have something better than wine, sir, I found Signor Crowley’s friend waiting in the entrance hall.” Salaì grinned.

“You what?!” and there it was, the same as some of the first words Aziraphale had ever heard him say. Surely, it was supposed to be harder for them to find one another. Surely, he wasn’t supposed to find Crowley in the very first place he went.

“Hello Crowley,” he said. Good, it was a good start, just an ordinary hello.

“Erm, yeah. Hello.” Crowley really hoped someone would help him pick his jaw off the floor sometime soon.

“Hi,” said Leonardo, who had long since given up on trying to work on his painting, “Have you been in the city long?” At least someone in the room remembered how to converse like a normal human.

“No, actually, I erm- just arrived today, in fact,” Aziraphale replied.

“Well in that case, you friend should show you around, you should see the sights, see the city,” Leonardo insisted.

“Right, erm-yeah, let’s go Aziraphale.”

Crowley stood up, and Leonardo’s goblet refilled itself. Leonardo leant forward and whispered something to Crowley that Aziraphale couldn’t here. Crowley exhaled loudly. “Sshut up,” he said to Leonardo, but there was no real bite to it.

“So,” Aziraphale said as they strolled along the side of the Arno river, “Leonardo Da Vinci?”

“He’s a friend,” Crowley said with finality, before adding, “he realised what I was right away, you as well.”

“Goodness gracious, really?” Aziraphale asked

“He’s a lot smarter than’s good for him,” Crowley said.

“And he’s why you’re here?” Aziraphale hadn’t meant for this to turn into him interrogating Crowley, but that was just the way things happened sometimes.

“Nah, he’s just a master procrastinator, so he’s helping me avoid my job,” Crowley said fondly.

“The archetypal Renaissance man procrastinates?” Aziraphale was shocked.

“He doesn’t just procrastinate; he excels at it. He could write a book about it, well, he could start a book about it and never finish it,” Crowley most definitely didn’t laugh at his own joke, oh whatever, he was a demon, laughing at his own jokes was inherently evil, so it was fine.

“So then why are you here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Could ask you the same question,” Crowley said, defensively.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke in a tone that offered no excuses.

“Machiavelli.” Crowley paused, “I’m supposed to be tempting and helping Machiavelli and his Florentine Guard.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, not sure what he had been expecting. “I’m supposed to be de-corrupting the Renaissance,” he said in the same way one might talk about doing a particularly stained batch of laundry.

“Really?” Crowley covered his laugh with a carefully time cough. This worked all the time with humans, but Aziraphale was completely aware that demons didn’t necessarily need to cough or breathe. Still, he appreciated the gesture.

They walked a little further along in comfortable silence.

“Have you thought about what you’re gonna do?” Crowley asked.

“I was thinking I could start by getting the major families to donate more money to the churches. I’m not convinced they’ll do it for the right reasons, but if I can get them to donate to smaller churches and maybe get the priests to use it wisely, I might have a starting point at least.” Aziraphale sighed, “It will be an awful lot of work, though.”

Crowley’s eyes lit up, “Seems like neither of us really want to do this. Maybe just one of us should. No point in us both suffering, really,” he said.

Aziraphale handed Crowley a coin, knowing full well he’d never see it again. “Heads,” he said.

Crowley examined the coin for any tricks, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Aziraphale, it was that he knew that trust could be misplaced. When he found nothing, he tossed it into the air and looked at it. Shit.

“Guess it’s my turn,” Crowley said sullenly, though he’d deny it in an instant, citing the fact that demons do not mope.

“Oh, thank you!” Said Aziraphale, unironically jumping up and down with joy which definitely didn’t make Crowley’s heart lurch.

“Whatever, angel.”

Back at the studio Crowley summoned all his courage. He had to do this, he had to. He’d seen Aziraphale to the monastery he was staying in, maybe they’d have lunch after Crowley was done, that thought alone might make the next week or so worth it. How he was supposed to help churches when he couldn’t walk into them was beyond him.

“Leonardo?” Crowley said into the studio, and Leonardo turned around, no longer facing the canvas.

“Why are you here, my friend? You should be with il Angelo, no?” Leonardo teased.

“You know exactly why I’m not.” Crowley was not in the mood for teasing

“Yes,” said Leonardo sadly, “I do.”

“I need a favour,” Crowley said suddenly

“You won’t get anything in exchange for my soul, Crowley,” Leonardo replied, as if he’d be rehearsing for this conversation.

“I know. This is something else. It’s for him.” Crowley’s eyes darted around behind his eyeglasses.

“What is it?” Leonardo was curious.

“I need you to take this,” Crowley conjured the file on Aziraphale, he’d held onto it now for 22 years, terrified of the day Dagon would call it back, “and soak it in Holy water.”

“Holy water?” Leonardo asked.

“I can’t touch the stuff, but you can. It should destroy all of this, and you’d be helping an angel, if anything, that’s got to be good for the soul,” Crowley joked feebly.

Leonardo paused to consider it, before reaching out his hand. “I’ll do it for you, my friend.”


	4. Always Interesting

1512 – Vatican City

One of the rather remarkable things about Rome and a great many other European cities, was that they displayed and stored their dead in catacombs beneath the cities. Any historian worth their salt would tell you, with a healthy dose of scepticism, that this was because there wasn’t room in the cities above, while still being respectful of a culture’s beliefs about death. And perhaps this was true. Hell was rather fond of catacombs for a number of reasons, one being that its rather fun to have the souls of the damned so close to their bodies yet also so far. But perhaps the main reason was that they all made rather fitting entrances to Hell itself.

The demon Crowley was long beyond being disgusted by catacombs filled with rotting people, he was from Hell after all, but he personally, found the whole thing rather on-the-nose. It marked a distinct lack of creativity, probably because creativity had no place whatsoever on Hell’s agenda.

So Crowley sauntered through the bowels of Hell and stood before Beelzebub, Prince of Hell. He knew better than to sit on one of the seats available, seats in Hell at best left one feeling as though they had sat in gum all day, and at worst tried to eat you. He kept his expression blank. It was never clear if he was being summoned to be praised or punished and until he knew what the correct reaction was, he wasn’t going to give anything away.

“Crowley?’ Beelzebub demanded, the question mark only there for show.

“Yes, Lord Beelzebub?” Crowley said.

“We have reportszz that faith and goodwill-“ There was a hush at these words, faith and goodwill were like swear words in Hell, the kind you would only refer to by the first letters of their names and pray that your parent’s didn’t hear you. “have been spreading again throughout Italy.”

Crowley gave Beelzebub his best disgusted face.

“Indeed,” They buzzed, “you must go up there and tear it down.” There were cheers from the onlookers this time, demons were general fans of tearing things down. “Find a symbol of their faith and stability and sew dizzent. Create mayhem. Destroy them.”

Crowley would have struggled to hear them over the crowds cheering if they were human.

“The Pope, perhaps,” Beelzebub said casually, gesturing to Crowley for a response.

What Crowley wanted to say was, “So you’ll punish me for going after a Pope and then turn around 250 years later and suddenly its all, ‘Crowley we need you to undermine the authority of the Pope’. Can you hear yourselves? It is so obvious that you’re making this shit up as you go along, and you don’t even have the guts to admit it!”

What he actually said was, “Of course, Lord Beelzebub.” Only one of the two beings who would have recognised the sarcasm dripping from Crowley’s words was present, and Crowley was hardly going to give himself away.

Always aware of the power of a good exit, Crowley made his way out of Hell without another word.

He came out in Il Vaticano, in the Piazza of St Peter. Il Vaticano was so full of churches and holy symbols that it made his teeth ache. The only thing that would make the city worse would be if they put it somewhere in the Arctic. With so many of the buildings closed to him, he would have to be clever about how he went about this new job.

Fortunately, humanity had not strayed so far from their roots so there was always a tavern nearby. Crowley sat himself down and got ready to have a good sulk. He would, of course, never admit to sulking but he was rather good at it in a way that denoted plenty of experience.

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth hour he spent sulking a newcomer arrived at the bar, it was getting rather full by that point and Crowley was beginning to wonder if she should try to find an emptier tavern elsewhere when the newcomer caught his attention by leaning over into a group of young men and grinning, “Drinks on me!”

* * *

Aziraphale watched Gabriel’s gaze closely, almost, but not quite, daring him to find fault in his reports. In truth, he hadn’t written them all, but Gabriel wasn’t likely no notice the ones Crowley had filled out.

“Well Aziraphale, this is definitely a good start,” Gabriel said finally.

“Start?” Aziraphale asked, hoping he had heard wrong.

“Well, its as you’ve written here,” Gabriel pointed to the report and -darn- it was one of the one’s he’d written himself, so he couldn’t even blame Crowley. “Corruption in the Almighty’s name goes deeper than a few churches, we will need to see more progress before we can move on to your next task.” Gabriel smiled. “I look forward to the rest of your reports.”

“But-“ Aziraphale was left in an empty room once again. He had been staying in the Papal Barracks. The stone rooms were modest, with no desk and a simple pallet bed that had not been touched since Aziraphale’s arrival. When he had arrived, his door hadn’t even had a lock on it. But he had set that to rights and had managed to procure an acceptable writing desk. He huffed a sigh. Aziraphale had the great misfortune to have curated a reputation in Heaven for being able to achieve impossible tasks. He didn’t know of any other angels with any sort of basic understanding of humanity, so he couldn’t explain his concerns to anyone. Another thing that also contributed to the mess Aziraphale found himself in was that he did succeed at his impossible tasks, admittedly with quite a bit of unsung help from a demon. This sent Heaven the message that he could handle such things, so of course, they just kept piling the work on.

What Aziraphale really wanted, more than anything, was the opportunity to sit down in a comfortable nook and read. Humanity really was at its best in writing, Aziraphale thought, the way they could conjure images of things they had never seen or experienced and still relate it all to something real and meaningful was a delight. He delighted in works on fiction and non-fiction alike and found that his ‘to read’ list was rapidly outgrowing, both in length and importance, his ‘to-do’ list.

It had been some two hundred years since he’d last gotten involved with writing itself. Dante had been such a nice young fellow, if a bit misguided. But during the Renaissance the arts were of more importance than his bosses upstairs could comprehend.

Aziraphale doffed his cap, the white feather in it did look suspiciously large for something so resembling a dove feather, but nobody took more notice of it than the odd comment.

He wondered down the Via della Tipografia and heard a familiar voice towards the street’s end. Of course, the tone and resonance of the voice were familiar, but perhaps the most familiar part was the actual contents of the speech.

“Fuck!”

“Good afternoon, Crowley,” He said, wondering if there was some way he could work running into Crowley into a report where he thwarted the demon and Heaven counted this all as a job well done.

“Satan below! Aziraphale! You scared the crap outta me!” Crowley said, jumping several feet in the air and wincing as he landed.

“Lovely to see you too,” Aziraphale said smugly.

Crowley made a noise like a bear being choked, “yeah, no, it’s fine to see you too. Good even. Great.”

Aziraphale just watched him. If nothing else, spending time with Crowley was always interesting.

“Doing anything in particular over here?” Aziraphale asked, after all, Crowley had a rather strict policy of avoiding churches.

“No, I’m just here for the laughs,” Crowley replied sarcastically. Aziraphale knew by now that if he just waited long enough, Crowley would eventually stop obfuscating and say what he actually meant. “I need to talk to Michelangelo,” Crowley said, bonelessly pointing his thumb at the chapel, “you?”

“Oh, I’m still here trying to end political corruption in the church.” Aziraphale said as casually as he was able.

“What? Your lot still aren’t done with that?” Crowley scoffed.

“Afraid not.”

“That sucks.” Crowley looked around and manages to spot a bakery, he pointed to it and looked slyly at Aziraphale. “Lunch? Don’t I still owe you from Florence?”

Bruschetta was a relatively new dish in Rome at this point. Renata Coppola, proud owner of a small bakery in Il Vaticano, prided herself on it. She baked the bread herself in the woodfired oven that had been there since the Roman empire, and all the other ingredients were fresh from her uncle’s farm. When the two gentlemen had ordered her food, she had been slightly offended to notice that the one in black did little more than pick at his food, but she was mollified when he pushed it over to the one in white, who promptly polished off both meals.

“. . . m’supposed to be undermining the church’s power,” Crowley said, “figured I’d try and get Michelangelo to write ‘fuck the Pope’ or something on that ceiling of his. They’re supposed to hate each other, shouldn’t be too hard.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly, that was so exactly Crowley’s style, he’d finetune it, of course, but it had all the fundamentals covered. Aziraphale took his time to look Crowley over, he still wore the new eyeglasses he’d been wearing in England, which begged the question:

“What happened to the glasses the Viking girl made you?” He asked.

“What? Ingrid?” Crowley said, as if he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to remember.

Aziraphale hadn’t, in fact, remembered her name, but he hummed affirmatively.

“Well, after Queen Margaret . . .” Crowley looked rather pointedly away from Aziraphale, turning his head to view the street outside, “I went _downstairs_ and . . .” Crowley paused again, sure, there were sounds coming out of his mouth, but they weren’t words. “And they, well-“ Crowley injected his voice with as much bravado as he could manage. “Well, Hastur and Ligur decided to play a bit of a game. The glasses didn’t survive.” Crowley let out a deep breath. “So I stopped by Venice on my way back to England, got these.” He tapped his glasses and continued to not look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale thought that was rather fair. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the side of Crowley he’d seen at Kinclaven Castle. It was so much easier to pretend that it had never happened, or to blow it off as drunken folly, but Aziraphale hadn’t seen any alcohol near Crowley that night. He often wondered what the world behind Crowley’s glasses looked like: Was it really as hopeless as he had made it seem? And if it was, what made him keep trying?

Crowley, however, was always one to see a situation that could be filled with contemplative silence and punch it in the face, changed the subject with the degree of tact one would expect from a firecracker. “Speaking of all those years you were avoiding me . . .” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look away. “You got my name wrong in Wessex. That sort of thing could’ve really hurt my feelings, if I had any.”

Aziraphale might not have been the most adept at social interaction, but he was the best angel at it, and that had to count for something. He took the hint.

“I do apologise for that, my dear boy, it was my first time speaking Anglo-Saxon and I hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it.”

“Well, s’long as you don’t make a habit of it.” Crowley looked down again.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, breaking the silence himself this time. “Seems a bit foolish to have both of us here,” he said, watching Crowley’s face carefully.

Crowley slowly turned back around to face him, tilting his head down so he could look at him properly. “It does, doesn’t it?” he smiled haltingly.

Aziraphale nodded and fished a coin from his purse.

“Tails,” Crowley said, his eyes locked on the coin.

Aziraphale tossed it and it landed. He showed it to Crowley. Tails indeed.

“Right,” Crowley said, standing up and lazily tossing a coin to the baker. “Well then.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale flashed him a quick smile, “This ought to be interesting.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes.” Crowley replied, his sly smile settling on his face.

“I suppose I shall.”

Aziraphale found he was rather excited at the prospect. Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted to do demonic work; he was an angel. But if it couldn’t be helped, he may as well enjoy himself, no?

He strolled into the Sistine Chapel and found Michelangelo immediately, it was easy enough to pick who the artist was. It was always easy enough to tell who the artist was, first, one must find a project of that artist, then look for the person in the room closest to having a meltdown.

“Signor,” Aziraphale began.


	5. The Things She Did For This Moron

1517, London, England

Summer in England didn’t quite have the same appeal as Summer on the Mediterranean, but it was still a significant improvement over the rainfall that had come with Spring. A great many people used the warmer weather to excuse their rather foolish behaviour, and this was the excuse that many attributed to the maid standing outside the servants’ entrance to Whitehall Palace. Her dress was positively indecent! And where on Earth had she found a black chemise? This would not ordinarily be a matter of much speculation as the chemise was only supposed to be visible in a small line above the kirtle, but with no jacket or gown covering her arms, quite a bit if it was on display, not to mention quite a bit of her forearms.

Crowley had dressed like this intentionally. It gave her an excuse to speak with the servants, and that was where her job lay.

The Sweat had returned to London. No alchemist or doctor of the time could identify it’s cause: It began as a fever, which gave way to pustules, which gave way to death. It did not just prey on the weak and feeble, striking down grown men in their prime without so much as a by-your-leave. Perhaps, if one was lucky enough to survive the first day, they might, with good fortune, make it, but most who succumbed died within three days. Anyone with any sense was afraid, and where there was fear, Crowley could make chaos.

“Goodness me! I know it’s hot out, but that’s no excuse to go running about like that!” Said a maid to the Duchess of Norfolk.

“I know,” Crowley said in a whisper that forced the maid to come closer, “but I dare not return to my rooms, several of the girls have taken ill.” She paused for dramatic effect. “They say it’s the Sweat.”

“Oh my,” the maid looked around fearfully, “It’s made it to London, then?”

Crowley nodded, “I heard talk that the King dare not go on progress this year for fear of his health. One of Lady Tilney’s servants said she was all well in the morning then dead by the afternoon. The servant took what she could and ran.”

“That’s hardly appropriate when her mistress had just died,” The maid said, but she didn’t move away.

“What else was she going to do? Poor girl was out of a job and at risk of catching it. If my mistress took ill with it, I’d be doing the exact same thing,” Crowley said. She watched as the seed planted itself in the maids mind and excused herself. Wonderful social creatures, humans, you only had to pass a bad idea onto one person to watch it grow, and with the way maids gossiped this idea would spread like wildfire.

Unfortunately, quite a few nobles had had the sense to leave Court as soon as there were even whispers of the Sweat about. Those, she would have to pay a visit to. And true, she could do that now. But she could also put it off for a bit. Travelling outside London was something she went out of her way to avoid, the process of hiring a horse was tiresome enough, and once you had one you had to ride the blessed thing! Maybe she’d forge them all urgent letters recalling them to Court. That would certainly be a lot less work. Until they figured out the letters were forgeries and made King Henry VIII even more paranoid.

She wondered aimlessly around London until she saw a crowd gathering around what looked like a completely normal house. That definitely warranted an investigation. She wondered over and fished a small coin from her purse, looking for an urchin who might give her some information. London had an abundance of street urchins; they were a very useful source.

“S’cuse me ma’am,” said a small child near her. He must have seen the penny in her hand, the scoundrel. She grinned.

“Yeah, what’s going on here?” She said, flicking the coin to the child who caught and pocketed in in under a second.

“Mister Tanner’s been cured of the sweat, ‘s a miracle!” The child said, wondering off to find someone else in need of his services.

A miracle indeed. She waited by the house until the crowd had parted. She heard nothing until the sun hung low in the sky and even Mr Tanner had left to fetch something or another. She could smell Aziraphale’s sweet, rich scent that reminded her of that sweet bread they’d eaten in Paris, but just as the sun fell over the horizon line, another smell permeated from the house: This one almost sickly sweet, like overly refined sugar. There was another angel in there. She pressed her ear to the wall.

“Aziraphale, are you done?”

“N-not quite, I think it will take a few more families before the people start to see the trend, the ones who act in accordance with Her rules will be healed,” came Aziraphale’s voice.

“Alright, but try to finish up here soon, there’s the situation in Germany.” The other voice was really starting to annoy Crowley. It was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Right, I’ll-I’ll see to it.”

“See that you do,” said Gabriel – That was his name! Crowley was pleased with herself for a second before realising that he was the one being a dick to Aziraphale.

The sickly-sweet scent wasn’t quite so overpowering now, which meant Gabriel was gone. She stretched out her awareness for a few moments, just to make extra sure she wasn’t about to walk into a room full of angels. That’s not to say she wouldn’t, Aziraphale made for rather alluring bait, but it would be nice to know in advance, so she could prepare herself.

She snuck herself in through the window and saw Aziraphale lying down on the floor. He looked bad. Well, he looked great, he always looked great, but he was shaking and there seemed to be bags under his eyes, Crowley didn’t even know their corporations did that.

“Hell’s teeth Aziraphale!” She said, “What have you done to yourself?”

“I assure you I’m quite alright.” He said, trying and failing to stand up.

“Like Heaven you are!” Crowley reached down and hoisted him up, definitely not enjoying the closeness and trying to document everything she could about the moment. Not even remotely.

“Crowley you can put me down, I assure you I am quite alri-“ Aziraphale fell down onto himself as Crowley let go of him as if to say, ‘are you sure?’. “Point taken,” Aziraphale said, accepting her hand.

Behind her glasses Crowley rolled her eyes. The things she did for this moron.

She helped him walk to her lodgings before she realised that if Mrs Behan had any idea she was bringing a man in, she’d have to put up with an awful lot of screaming before she would be able to get away from it all. She sighed and miracled Aziraphale onto her bed, determinedly not thinking about all the much more preferable situations in which she’d do such a thing.

She entered the kitchen and smiled at her landlady who scowled at her disapprovingly. Crowley grabbed a plate of food and legged it up the stairs, scandalously pulling her skirts above her ankles to do so. It was a good thing Mrs Behan was distracted by the front door blowing open, despite there being almost no wind.

Aziraphale was sitting up and looking around in panic when Crowley came in.

“Crow-“

“Shh! If my landlady hears I’ve got a man up here I’ll have to explain to Head Office how a little old lady managed to box my ears!” She said, pointedly ignoring the blood rushing to her cheeks as she spoke, after all, demons don’t blush. Though it looked like angels might, based on the pink tinge of Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“My apologies,” Aziraphale said softly.

“Whatever,” Crowley said, holding out the plate of food artlessly, “have some dinner if you want to,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “s’nothing fancy.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious,” Aziraphale said. Satan below! He was trying so hard. Crowley watched as Aziraphale, who was clearly beyond exhausted, carefully spoon the vegetable stew into his mouth. He held the wooden spoon so daintily.

Neither of them spoke until the bowl was empty. Aziraphale looked a little better.

“How many did you try to heal today, angel?” Crowley asked him.

“I’m not entirely sure, my dear bo-girl,” Aziraphale corrected himself hastily.

“I don’t really care today,” she said lazily, “go on.”

“Well, I erm, I definitely visited at least five houses,” Aziraphale was looking at a spot on the floor.

“Five? And how many did you decide to bring back from the brink of death?” Crowley asked, not about to let Aziraphale get away with this.

“I’m not-“

“Just running around like bloody Asclepius! Even my lot know better than to try and raise the dead.” She stared at him, unblinking.

“They weren’t dead! Not quite. Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m being punished enough as it is, don’t you think?”

“Is it enough to stop you doing it again?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll be more careful next time, but he was the only baker within a mile of London who could make decent bread,” Aziraphale said.

Of course. That would be it. One of these days Aziraphale’s idiosyncrasies were going to discorporate her. She pulled out another coin from her purse.

“I’m supposed to be convincing people to nick their boss’s stuff while they’re sick with the Sweat. Toss you for it?” She said, careful to keep her tone neutral, too beguiling and Aziraphale wouldn’t fall for it.

“Heads,” Aziraphale said and oh will you look at that.

“Heads it is.” Crowley put the coin back in her pocket, “Guess you have to head off to Germany now.”

“You heard?” Aziraphale seemed particularly surprised.

“’Course I heard, now I’m going to have to get you out of here before Mrs Behan does her nightly check.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, his eyes meeting hers. Regretfully, she snapped her fingers and he was gone.


	6. Faster than searching town for miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite short because well, the interaction was short. Sorry I can’t be more consistent with the chapter lengths; I’m just trying to keep it all organised by time and place. Also sorry again to any Catholics for all my Pope bashing, but you have to agree that ‘indulgences’ were and are bullshit

4 months later, Wittenberg, Germany

Despite the chilly nip of Autumn having only just hit the air, the beer gardens of Wittenberg were already brewing gluhwein in large enticing cauldrons, just enough that the smell of decadent spiced wine laced the air. Even the friary from which Aziraphale overlooked the streets was not exempt from the tantalising scent.

Aziraphale had been in Wittenberg for quite a few months now, watching as the envoys from the Pope in Rome came by and granted indulgences. It was such an ordinary occurrence in Rome, but so far away, it seemed wrong, like taxing people for their sins. Perhaps it had something to do with how much less opulent and decadent life was here. That did not at all mean that it was worse, the food, though very different from the fare he had been used to, was wonderful and made entirely from produce either grown at the friary or nearby.

Aziraphale had also noticed the growing resentment people had towards the Pope, particularly one Vicar whose name escaped him. Martin something? This was the situation Gabriel had referred to some months prior. It reminded Aziraphale of the outer colonies of Rome, the way the laws of the Empire had meant nothing to them. Crowley had said it was a sign that the Romans had spread themselves too thin. Aziraphale wondered if history was repeating itself.

According to the sundial in the courtyard below it was approaching mid-day, probably not the best time to go wondering down in search of the gluhwein his senses promised him. But Aziraphale had never been one to deny himself the simple pleasures of good food and drink.

He followed the enticing scent to a beer garden quite a bit further away than he ordinarily would have gone, but he was clearly not the only person to have succumbed to the scent. The reason for this was made clear when he saw the two women (or rather one woman, one woman-shaped entity) beside the cauldron: One looked perfectly normal, dressed in modest brown and was engrossed in conversation with the other, a slender figure in black, sporting the high-waisted dress that was fashionable in this part of the world, and her red hair poorly covered by a black barett.

Crowley, for no matter what form she took it was still utterly her, said something to the other woman, who laughed, and made her way over to Aziraphale.

“I should have known it was you,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Crowley gave him her best ‘Who, me?’ expression and sat down opposite him. “It was faster than searching town for miracles and men in white,” she said, by way of explanation. Aziraphale watched her extend her neck to turn around and thank her friend from the cauldron, who brought them a goblet of gluhwein each. Now, it seemed, it was Crowley’s turn to stare; she peered at Aziraphale through tinted lenses as if she was going to be quizzed on his appearance later that afternoon.

“You look better,” she said, “than last time, I mean.”

“I feel it too,” he agreed. He knew he’d been foolish last time; pushing not just his corporation, but his entire being to its limit had not been wise. He’d had to take refuge in the friary for quite some time, unable to risk using his angelic powers.

They watched each other like enemies taking the measure of one another and friends filled with concern all at the same time.

“So everything here is going alright for you?” Crowley said, breaking eye contact.

“Oh yes, I barely have to do anything, they have little patience for church corruption here,” Aziraphale said.

“I can tell,” she said dryly, “I can feel the dissent in the air.”

“You,” Aziraphale said, knowing Crowley well enough by now, “want something.”

“It’s entirely possible,” she flashed him a beguiling smile, the kind that would have certain humans lining up to sell their souls. Aziraphale told himself that his reaction to it was pity for those poor souls.

“You have somewhere you’d rather be?” Aziraphale would know why he was taking the risk before he agreed to it.

“Weather’s turning cold,” she said, glaring at the sun and if she could threaten it into keeping Summer around. “Besides, it’s not like they gave me any clear instructions, just “bring on the discord, you know?”

“Very well,” he said, pulling out a coin.

“Heads,” Crowley said, taking a leisurely sip of the gluhwein, it was wonderfully warming.

“Heads it is,” Aziraphale said, tucking the coin away.

Gluhwein finished, they went their separate ways, Aziraphale had already begun to concoct a plan where he could do both his own and Crowley’s job at the same time. It was less than two weeks later that he stood beside the man whose name he hadn’t remembered (Luther, that was it!), holding nails outside the entrance to the All Saints Church.


	7. You Are the Dancing Plague

1518 Strasbourg, Alsace

Mrs Troffea had a great many regrets in her life thus far. Many of them had to do with marrying a man who wouldn’t have been able to find his own arse with both hands and a map, but perhaps the biggest regret of her life was pissing off a demon. In her defence, she hadn’t known he was a demon when she’d decided to speak, but perhaps that was the point, that was how they caught her off guard.

It had been about 5 days ago, though telling the time required brain power she couldn’t afford to spare, when she had effectively ended her life like this.

She’d been talking to a few friends, ok more than a few, ok maybe it was in front of the entire congregation while they milled outside the church after service. But she didn’t make them listen to her. Well, she was yelling. But she hadn’t even said anything that wasn’t true. Well, she’d had no proof that the child was a changeling, but just look at her. Besides, what kind of normal child would refuse a proposal from Mrs Troffea’s son? She’d have to be barking mad. Especially after spending so much time dancing with him on May day.

Regardless of how her tirade began, it was finished very quickly by a man in black, she’d thought him a mourner at first.

“Dancing?” He’d said mockingly, “You think just because someone dances with someone they have to get married?”

She hadn’t expected anyone to call her out, “It’s not proper-“

“Proper? Oh that’s rich. Did you never think maybe she just likes dancing?”

“Dancing,” she had said, in a voice that would make even the bravest store manager in 2019 quake in their boots, “Is a courting ritual, everyone knows that.”

“Oh really?” The man’s voice changed; it was as though all the air had turned icy cold around them. “So you’ve never just danced for the Hell of it?”

Deciding she’d rather stand her ground against this strange interloper, Mrs Troffea replied, “No.”

“So you’d swear that you’ve never just danced for fun, and never will?” The man fidgeted with his strange glasses.

“On my life,” she said.

The man had removed his glassed then, and oh God above! His eyes were yellow, with slit pupils like an angry cat. He’d smiled at her, “On your own head be it.”

She knew she’d lied, but it was just to prove her point. But before she could take anything back, she found herself dancing, and unable to stop.

That had been five days ago. Now, it seemed, half the town was doing the same thing. If they were smart, they could dance their way over to food and drink, but without being able to stop, she was sure they’d soon all die of exhaustion.

Across the square, where Mrs Troffea might have been able to see him, if she wasn’t currently engaged in a dance that seemed to involve quite a bit of twirling, the demon who had cursed her sat at a small table enjoying a glass of Riesling and pointedly ignoring the sound of angry footsteps coming his way.

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, shouting both to be heard over the dancers and because he was really quite cross.

“Aziraphale! Did you want something?” Crowley said, continuing to ignore Aziraphale’s anger.

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, standing in front of Crowley, blocking his view of the dancers. “I want an explanation for why I was interrupted half-way through a blessing on the other side of the city because people have been dancing for nearly a week.”

“Has it been that long already?” Crowley said, intentionally nonplussed.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, but it was more pleading this time. Crowley sighed to himself, of course Aziraphale would find some way to guilt him over this.

“OK so maybe I might have had something to do with that,” he said.

“You cursed them?” Aziraphale took the tone of a teacher whose patience has worn thin.

“Of course, I cursed them, I’m a demon! They make the deal.”

“What deal?”

“That one,” he gestured to Mrs Troffea, who seemed to be making an early attempt at the chicken dance, “swore on her life that she’d never danced for fun.”

“On her life?”

“Oh yes, stupid thing to swear on, ‘specially when I could tell she was lying.”

Aziraphale sighed and sat down. A glass miraculously appeared before him and Crowley poured them both a drink. “I suppose I can’t interfere if the deal has been made.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale closely, he was leaning back and resting his feet on a cross bar of the table. He must have walked.

“I have a carriage sort of thing, set up here,” Crowley offered, “I could give you a lift back to where you were?”

“I would appreciate that,” Aziraphale said, but he still looked peeved. Crowley couldn’t help the curse; it was his job. He wanted to scream. Aziraphale was normally relatively understanding of the nature of his work, but he still seemed to want Crowley to do something more. Oh.

Crowley pulled out a coin, “Heads; you have to stay and keep the dancing plague going, tails; I go finish your miracle.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said, eyes wide and sweet and Crowley was really struggling to maintain a straight face, part of him wanted to say, ‘like you weren’t angling for exactly this, you bastard’ and the other was his stupid infatuation making his corporations heart beat far too quickly.

Crowley flipped the coin. Tails. He stood up. He needed to get away from Aziraphale soon before he did something he regretted. “Enjoy the wine,” he said casually over his shoulder.


	8. What kind of angel would come all this way for a sinful fool and a demon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale says Gay Rights!!
> 
> TW for minor character death

1519 Amboise, France

Dappled light poured in through the windows of the Clos Lucé. It would have made for a wonderful painting, tragically, the only artist in the immediate vicinity lay abed. He was conscious, but immobile, he did not want to waste his strength, because he knew he would need it for the conversation that was to come.

Outside his room, Crowley paced. He had never really thought of time as being a precious resource before. He knew it was for humans, of course, but never for him. He didn’t have much time, only a few days really, and he wanted to get this right. He had to get this right.

* * *

Aziraphale clutched the letter in his hand, he’d read it hundreds of times now, easily.

<strike>De</strike>

<strike>M</strike>

To A,

Before you start to panic, neither one of our offices knows I’ve sent this letter. The messenger is human and illiterate (I checked) so stop panicking.

Look, I know I’ve already asked <strike>too much</strike> a lot of you, but I figure I can ask. Worst thing you can do is say no, right? Right.

<strike>I need you to</strike> <strike>Please</strike> If you happen to be nearby, could you get to Clos Lucé in Amboise. <strike>Leonardo is</strike> <strike>Someone is</strike> I can’t tell you why, but if its after the 2nd of May don’t <strike>bother</strike> worry about it.

<strike>Sincerely</strike>

<strike>Regards</strike>

<strike>Thinking of OH FUCK IT</strike>

\- C[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132458/chapters/50375993#chapter_8_endnotes)

It was not the type of summons Aziraphale was used to receiving: Heaven usually just sort of ‘showed up’ and humans usually didn’t know where to reach him. Neither did Crowley really, he’d just gotten lucky that Aziraphale was still in Strasbourg. True, it was a two-day journey which was quite a bit longer than Aziraphale was used to traveling without miracle. But he’d had a very enjoyable stop off in Troyes and had managed to pick up a casket of champagne for a very agreeable price, so he could justify the journey. Crowley had never given him a time frame before, they’d always operated on what Aziraphale thought of as ‘Celestial time’ which was, to say, ‘as long as it gets done’. He had a whole list of reasons for why he was undertaking this journey, excuses, if you will: Curiosity, concern for the people of Amboise, etc. None of them quite fit with why he was actually doing this, but they were the best reasons he had.

His carriage (he’d managed to find the man who’d given Crowley a carriage last year and had hired one for himself) pulled up outside the château in broad daylight. It was miraculous really, that nobody saw him enter. He reached out with his being in search of Crowley; the smoky and almost spiced scent became almost overpowering as he approached, making him easy enough to find.

Crowley stood with his back to the door Aziraphale had just walked through, his hand lightly tracing the handle of the door opposite.

Figuring it would be embarrassing to watch as a demon caressed a door, Aziraphale spoke, “Hello Crowley.”

Crowley let out a deep and unnecessary breath before turning to face Aziraphale. His expression was unreadable. “Angel,” he said.

Aziraphale could feel human emotions easily, they almost bombarded him whenever he went, well, anywhere. Crowley was a lot harder to read. Aziraphale supposed this was because he wasn’t supposed to be worrying about demons’ feelings anyway. But Crowley did always have a certain feeling to him, Aziraphale couldn’t identify what it was, it reminded him of a Greek myth (yes, he knew they were false, but they did make for entertaining stories): Crowley’s emotions (if that was even what Aziraphale was sensing, he couldn’t be sure) felt like Tantalus, the starving man reaching out for food.

What Aziraphale had entered this room, in particular, that wasn’t the first of Crowley’s emotions (or whatever it was demons had instead) he felt, instead it was a selfish sadness, like when Midas turned his own daughter to gold (the similes were just spilling out once he had gotten onto the topic of Greek myths). But as Crowley spoke Aziraphale’s name, his emotions seemed to return to normal, or what was normal for Crowley anyway.

“You called?” Aziraphale said rather primly from the doorway.

“You came?” Crowley replied, as though he wasn’t sure what was happening was real. Because, well, he wasn’t.

“Naturally,” Aziraphale responded because he couldn’t think of anything else to say that wasn’t entirely untoward. “Why did you ask me to come?”

“Er- right. So,” Crowley tried to put off saying it. Admitting he had a human friend was one thing but admitting it to his so-called enemy that he happened to be slightly infatuated with was quite a lot of stress for one demon to be under. “Leonardo is dying,” he said quickly on his exhale.

“I see,” said Aziraphale, not really seeing at all.

“They were gonna call a priest to come and do his, whaddya call ‘em? Last rite things. And I guess I just thought you,” Crowley had begun this statement speaking very quickly but was rapidly moving down to a snail’s pace, “could do it. Maybe. You don’t have to, obviously.”

Aziraphale felt relieved, there were many situations that had flown through his mind as he’d read the letter. The least of which involved Crowley trying to rope him into some hair-brained demonic scheme that he’d never be able to explain to upstairs.

“My dear fellow, of course I will. I usually gets requests for this sort of thing from, well, head office, but I am certainly allowed to do such things of my own volition.”

“Great. Yeah.” Crowley didn’t seem as happy as Aziraphale had expected. “I just,” Crowley added, “I need to talk to him first.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said warningly, “you know I can’t bless him if his soul is already forfeit.”

“It’s not. It shouldn’t be, anyway,” Crowley said quickly, “I just need to ask him about something.”

Crowley, in this instance is very fortunate that of the two things Crowley was hiding, Aziraphale picked up on the lesser. Aziraphale thought it was quite sweet that Crowley wanted to say goodbye to his friend. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t strictly supposed to form attachments with humans, and he suspected that the same rule applied to Crowley, but if anything, that was good for Aziraphale, helping Crowley do something he wasn’t supposed to do was the very pinnacle of thwarting villainy.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the door.

No getting out of it now, Crowley thought to himself. He pushed the door open and was greeted by the image of his friend, fighting to stay awake.

“Old friend, I expected to see you sooner,” Da Vinci said, his voice the same as ever despite his ill health.

“Yeah, well . . .” Crowley trailed of in syllables that were definitely not words.

“It’s good to see you, Crowley,” Leonardo said, “Though I wish the circumstances are better.”

“Me too,” Crowley huffed a bit of a laugh

“So are you here to take me or just-“

“What? No!” Crowley gaped at Leonardo, “I-I’m not here for your soul, you idiot! I’m here to say goodbye,” Crowley suddenly realised that sounded far too friendly. He really ought to try and cover it up somehow, but he couldn’t really see the point, Leonardo had the unfortunate habit of always seeing through him and he wasn’t going to believe for a moment that just because the old man was on his deathbed that he wouldn’t.

“Really?” Leonardo raised his eyebrows, “That certainly will surprise some people. Probably including the priest they called for the Last Rites.”

“I’ll bet. I, -erm, well that priest has managed to have an unfortunate accident, so he won’t be coming.” Crowley always found it easier to say the bad stuff, it was saying the (ugh) good stuff that was difficult. “So I-I wrote to Aziraphale.”

“So you finally told him?” Leonardo asked, his mischievous expression sending a rush of fear through Crowley.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and-and if I did,” Crowley said, his sputters turning into his most demonic, threatening voice, “I’d remind you that it’s not too late for me to make sure you end up where everyone seems to think you’re going.”

Leonardo just smiled wider at him, the bastard. “So you haven’t told him, and he still came here to do you a favour?”

“Sshut up,” Crowley said.

Leonardo’s eyes widened at a thought, “Are you here to ensure that I did the deed you asked of me? The one regarding the book and holy water?”

Crowley swallowed and nodded.

“It was done. The moment it touched the water it dissolved as if it had never been, I can assure you of that.”

“Right.” Crowley cleared his throat, “thanks.”

“You’re really going to be so tight-lipped on our last meeting? It’s like our first all over again,” Leonardo said.

“You’re right,” Crowley said, half-smiling despite himself, “goodbye Leonardo, it was nice knowing you.”

“You too, diabolo, remember what I’ve taught you,” Leonardo replied.

“What? How to procrastinate to a level never seen before or since?” Crowley replied incredulously.

“No old friend, that time is finite. It runs out.” Leonardo said with finality.

Not for me, Crowley though privately, not really, I have as much time as there will ever be. But he didn’t say it, he wasn’t about to get into a fight with Leonardo. Not when he was about to die.

“Goodbye, Leonardo,” Crowley said, opening the door to let himself out.

Aziraphale had been sitting out in the hallway waiting for, whatever it was he was waiting for. This had given him plenty of time to worry. Worrying was one of the things that Aziraphale did best, and under the circumstances, he was having a field day. His mind had already jumped on the possibility of either of their bosses finding the letter. He’d managed to solve that one by burning the letter, after which a strange feeling of loss had overcome him. That had set him off on something of an existential crisis (which hadn’t been invented yet, but Aziraphale would get around to it eventually).

“Your turn,” Crowley told him as he ambled out of the room.

“Right, yes. Of course,” Aziraphale grounded himself and walked through the door Crowley was holding open for him.

Aziraphale had only had occasion to meet Leonardo Da Vinci once before and they had not had much conversation then. Still, Crowley had spoken most highly of him, so that was either great commendation or a very good reason to be rather afraid.

“Angelo Aziraphale,” Leonardo said from the bed, “thank you for doing this.”

“You’re perfectly welcome,” Aziraphale replied.

“But one has to wonder,” Leonardo said as Aziraphale approached. Aziraphale had never seen a dying man still so sharp of wit. “What kind of angel would come all this way for a sinful fool and a demon?”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said, “from what I hear, you are far from a fool.”

Leonardo watched him closely, as if to say, “and you have no rebuttal for the other points?” but Aziraphale pointedly ignored him.

“Right, well, for your last rites, we begin with penance, don’t we? So . . .”

Leonardo sighed, “My only regrets are the works I could not finish. I cannot apologise for the others; I do not regret the people I have loved.”

“Oh goodness no! Master Da Vinci, that is no sin, I can assure you. I think it was John that said it, erm ‘God is love, and to know the feeling of love is to know God’ or something like that, he didn’t say it in Italian, so the translation might be a bit off,” Aziraphale said, aware that he was rambling but unable to stop.

“I can think of a few people who could do with an angel telling them that,” Leonardo said.

“I’m sure. So after penance was the anointing, so . . .” Aziraphale dipped his fingers into a bowl that hadn’t been there earlier and carefully applied the sacred oil to Da Vinci’s face.

“Then Viaticum,” Aziraphale was mostly talking to himself now, but he spoke the blessing to Leonardo, both the Viaticum and the Anointing of the Sick and a little extra blessing just for luck.

It seemed he had acted not a moment too soon; he could see Da Vinci’s essence flowing out of him and heading skyward. He felt relieved and peaceful for a moment before he realised, he was going to have to be the one to break the news to Crowley.

He stepped outside with some trepidation. In his experience, people didn’t often react positively to the deaths of their friends.

“I think perhaps,” Aziraphale said, walking right over to the door at the opposite end of the hallway, “we ought to go for a walk.”

“Right.” Crowley said quietly, following Aziraphale with his head still turned to face Da Vinci’s door.

The grounds outside the château were verdant and stunning in a way that Crowley thought was rather rude, a legendary genius had just died, and the grounds had the gall to be all beautiful and lush. He glared at them.

“Crowley, I, erm, I assume you felt it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” Crowley replied. He didn’t know what else to say, his thoughts were running laps around him there wasn’t anything to be done. Humans died; it was what they did. But that didn’t explain what was happening to him: It wasn’t unlike that time he’d made the mistake of basking in a field in India when a group of nearby elephants had been disturbed by a bee. He couldn’t well transform back into his human form while his snake form was jostling about trying very hard not to be trodden on by the elephants.

“Crowley, my dear, I,” Aziraphale paused, wondering if he ought to say this, “I am sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything,” Crowley said.

“Well, you’re right, but I think it’s the thing humans say when one has suffered a loss,” Aziraphale said, looking directly at Crowley’s glasses.

“Right, well, er. Thanks. For coming. And everything,” Crowley said articulately.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale said primly.

“Look,” Crowley said, “Sorry I dragged you out of Alsace, are you right to get back?”

“I should be.” Aziraphale looked away and down the grounds where he knew his carriage was waiting.

“Right. Yeah. Well.” Crowley looked away as well.

“I imagine I’ll see you eventually,” Aziraphale said, a hint of a joke in his eyes, “After all, there’s always some disaster or another.”

“There is indeed,” said Crowley, smiling for the first time since he’d felt Leonardo’s soul leave his body.

Aziraphale returned his smile and made his way over to his carriage and if he felt worried there were plenty of good reasons for that, and none of those reasons was concern over Crowley. None of them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The things that were crossed out were crossed out a great deal more thoroughly than this, Aziraphale was not able to make out the words beneath the carefully placed ink blots, but they were there, nonetheless.


	9. This certainly rings a bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a short one <3

1527 Rome

The city of Rome is often considered one of the oldest and greatest in the world. It boats a history of uninterrupted glory since at least 753 BC. This is, however, only a boast. Throughout history Rome has been interrupted many times by people who will then try to rewrite history to convince others that they were simply continuing the regularly scheduled programming, no interruptions at all. The interruption of 1527 was particularly nasty and took place for a great many reasons that all had to do with the nuanced politics of Europe at the time and nothing whatsoever to do with morality or God, no matter what Emperor Charles V said to defend his actions.

“Goodness me this certainly rings a bell,” Aziraphale said as he went to stand beside Crowley. He’d known they’d find one another here. After all, Rome was being sacked, there was no way they wouldn’t have both been there.

“It does,” Crowley agreed. Aziraphale was pleased that he seemed just as good (bad?) as ever. “At least I don’t have to open the gate for them this time.”

“Of course that was you.”

“Obviously.” Crowley looked around. “I don’t know about you, but I reckon this whole ‘sacking Rome’ business is getting a bit passé.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Aziraphale said.

“I mean, I’m really only here to make sure no one passes up the opportunity to mess things up,” Crowley said with forced nonchalance.

“And I’m only here to make sure innocent lives are spared,” Aziraphale replied, knowing exactly where this was going.

“Well it’s a bit inefficient if we’re both-“ Crowley was cut off by a cannonball landing beside them both, causing a great deal of dust to fly into the air. Had they been humans the force of the blast could well have done them some serious injury.

Aziraphale coughed up a lungful of the dust, his habit of breathing when he didn’t need to was definitely an annoyance in that moment. He sighed; they had no time for the usual routine. He grabbed Crowley by the wrist and pulled him away from where the cannon had landed.

“I’m afraid we don’t really have time for the whole song-and-dance routine today Crowley. So hurry up and toss damned the coin!”  


Crowley didn’t move.

“Crowley! Quickly!”

“Oh -er, yeah. Right.” Crowley pulled out the coin. Aziraphale surmised that he must have been stunned by the blast. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale.

“Heads.”

Crowley nodded slowly, seemingly still stunned. He tossed the coin. “Tails,” he said hoarsely. Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t swallowed some dust accidentally.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale gave Crowley a tight smile, “I suppose I have quite a bit to be getting on with.”

“Yeah.” Crowley was still nodding slowly. “Quite a bit.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll see you at the next disaster. I think they’re sending me back to London after this,” Aziraphale said helpfully.

“Disaster. London. Yeah.” Crowley replied blankly.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to get anything useful out of Crowley. He couldn’t help but wonder what had stunned him so much, they’d both certainly seen worse than cannonballs. Ah well, there was nothing to be done about it. He turned around and made his way into Rome.


	10. Silenced before it had truly begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW graphic depictions of a beheading.

13th February 1542 Tower of London

It was unfortunate that veils had rather gone out of fashion in ‘Christendom’ (were they still calling themselves that?). It meant that Crowley attracted quite a bit of attention in her crescent hood and glasses. A woman? Reading? Scandalous! She smirked, if these idiots even tried to comprehend that the rigid gender roles that they used to govern their society were completely made up, they’d probably explode.

Among them, she stood near the scaffold, like those around her, she couldn’t quite believe the events that had unfolded around the girl who trembled as she mounted the steps to her death.

“I thought you were told to stay away from the British Monarchy?” Came a voice in Crowley’s ear, the smell of brioche filled her senses and she knew it was Aziraphale before she turned around.

“I’m not involved. I just didn’t think he’d have the nerve to actually do it. And you were told off too,” She pointed out.

“I’m not involved either. Oh gosh, poor thing. She’s as white as a sheet. How old is she again?” Aziraphale peered up at Katherine Howard pitifully.

“Nineteen.”

“And did she do it? The erm, things she’s accused of?” Aziraphale looked away.

“Who cares! She’s 19 and married to that despot, she’d deserve a medal for not cheating on him,” Crowley spat, gesturing at Henry VIII.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale hummed a sound that was the humming version of the phrase ‘No comment’.

Katherine whispered something to the man escorting her to her death. Aziraphale and Crowley caught it, she was apologising for any inconvenience her execution caused them. Crowley was very glad of her dark glasses.

The crowd was silent as she lowered her neck onto the block, she was shaking. The swordsman lifted his weapon and with one great swing Katherine Howards life was silenced before it had really begun.

Crowley and Aziraphale winced and looked at each other. There was nothing to say. Nothing they could say that would make this OK. They just sat together in silence, in the bubble of the only two beings in the world that understood this like the other did.

It was Crowley who broke the silence, to the surprise of no one but herself. “Anyway, I’m supposed to be heading over to Cleves soon. Supposed to be Tempting to Duke to ‘Unclean thoughts’,” she said mockingly.

“I’m supposed to be there soon as well - doing some healing, but why do you sound so opposed to going? I thought you hated London?” Aziraphale said.

“It’s growing on me. And Cleves isn’t supposed to be much better. His last wife,” she gestured to Henry VIII, “chose to stay here rather than go back there. I s’pose she’s his last-last wife now,” Crowley added as an afterthought, “Wife before last? Anyway, toss you for Cleves?”

“Oh alright.” Aziraphale watched Crowley pull a coin from his pocket closely. “Tails,” said Aziraphale uncharacteristically.

“Heads,” Crowley groaned, “I guess I’ll be off then. They really ought to give me my own boat, number of times they’ve sent me across the channel,” he grumbled mostly to himself.

The crowd began to disperse, and they were carried away in a sea of people. Miraculously, they found themselves near a baker. Aziraphale bought himself a pie and looked at Crowley who just shook her elegant head. They sat down.

“That reminds me,” Crowley said, procrastinating on leaving, “you never told me what you managed to get done with Michelangelo.”

“You never asked,’ Aziraphale grinned mischievously. “It should be nearly finished now, I got him to put his drawings of Hell right behind the pulpit, so whenever the Pope gives a sermon it’ll look like he’s there. Also all of his drawings of, your er, head boss, look eerily like Pope Julius II.”

“Ha!” Crowley barked a laugh, “that’s fantastic!”


	11. Not a Good Time

1571 – Paris

The August sun hung around far longer than it was welcome to by the standards of most people, its light still lingering even after many had already gone to bed. Those that still waited up were immediately suspicious, after all, what was it they were doing that couldn’t be readily dome by daylight?

Assassins lurked in every corner of Paris these days, more readily available than food to some. An easy way to eliminate enemies without getting one’s hands dirty.

Crowley knew all about the sorts of people who hired assassins. They were angry cowards, no two ways about it. When all it took was the stroke of a pen and an exchange of money to kill someone, people were all too happy to run around killing each other.

These were the sorts of people he’d been hanging around since Ligur had pulled him aside in Cleves.

“Word downstairs, says you’ve been going soft, Crowley. You know what we do to people who go soft?”

“’Course I do. And whoever’s been saying that’s a bloody idiot. Spanish Inquisition? Dancing Plague? Rome, several times now? Any of these ringing a bell?” He’d always been able to summon bravado from depths so low even Hell didn’t dare go there.

“I’m not here to listen to excuses. Get. To. Work.” Ligur had vanished on the last word, but his threats still hung in the air.

The worst thing was that Ligur had a point. Crowley knew it, he’d always preferred subtle, clever schemes than the sort of bloody murder-style things Hell seemed to enjoy. He knew he had to do something bad. And quickly.

That had brought him to the assassination of Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, one of the leaders in whatever new religious revolt France was having. He’d kept the assassin safe from prying eyes and the bloody idiot had still managed to screw it up. Still, it hadn’t been a total waste, after all, the Queen Regent was furious enough that she’d called hundreds of assassins into Versailles. This would certainly make for a very good report downstairs.

The Queen Regent had spoken to the assassins on the 22nd of August. By dawn on the 24th some thousands of Huguenots (the religious faction of the Admiral de Coligny) were slaughtered in the streets.

That should have been enough to get Hell off his back, perhaps he could have gone back to enjoying clandestine meetings with Aziraphale far more than he had any right to. But no, things could never be that easy for Crowley, could they?

Near a small parish church, one of the ones you could walk past a hundred times without really noticing, a small group of people were handing out alms and food. At the centre of it all was Aziraphale. Crowley cursed while his insides whooped. No, he told his emotions sternly, this is not a good time to see him.

It’s always a good time to see him, his emotions retorted.

He watched and waited, extending his senses to make sure no demons were watching, nor angels. It was hard to ignore the brioche-y smell of Aziraphale, but his fear helped him push past it. He couldn’t risk this if anyone was watching. He knew he’d gotten complacent.

Aziraphale didn’t leave the crowd until he was completely out of anything to give. He had been sent to Paris very suddenly, and naturally without any real instructions, so he was simply making extra certain to be seen to be doing good. He was, naturally, concerned for Paris and what was happening, but he hadn’t been told to interfere, not yet anyway.

The worst of it all was something he was trying very hard not to acknowledge: He could sense Crowley in everything. That scent, smoky and spicy with just a hint of crisp apples, seemed to cover the city like a blanket. Aziraphale’s heart had sunk as soon as he’d smelt it, this had to be Crowley’s work. But there was something else to it, something darker that made his heart lurch. There had been another demon here.

He didn’t know what to think. His thoughts swirled in his head causing more confusion than he could possibly deal with. And just when he was hoping he could run across the channel and hope that he’d done enough, he was stopped by a black figure, some feet ahead of him, in his path.

“Crowley,” he’d said, not sure what else to do.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley replied, “you should go.”

“I can’t just leave, I’ve been sent here to help after-“ he gestured around, “all this!”

“Aziraphale, please. Let me get this one or whatever,” Crowley’s tone was careless as ever except for the tiniest hint of pleading.

“They’re calling them ‘the Religious Wars’ Crowley!” Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s eyes, as if he could somehow see them through his glasses.

“They’ve had plenty of them. These aren’t the first and they won’t be the last. Just sit back and enjoy the show.” Crowley’s voice still had that slight pleading tone to it, so slight, but still there.

This was it, Aziraphale realised, the first time since their Arrangement had begun where they really had been called directly to counter the other. They were at an impasse, neither could leave while the other did their work. Aziraphale pulled a coin from his purse without looking away from Crowley (this took quite a bit more fidgeting than he was comfortable admitting). He raised his eyebrows. This was their only way out of this, for one of them to leave, so they wouldn’t have to be stuck here.

“Heads,” Crowley said, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale.

Aziraphale tossed the coin towards Crowley, so it would land in between them and they would both be able to see what it landed on.

The coin landed on it’s edge.

“Fuck,” Crowley said, and they both burst out laughing. All their pent-up fears came out as hysterical laughter. This was ridiculous.

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, still laughing.

“What do we do now?” Crowley asked, slowly steadying himself.

Aziraphale looked around. There was nothing they could do, really. They’d probably both do less harm if they just left. He took it as a sign that this was what She wanted, even if the Almighty didn’t tend to leave nearly as many signs as humans seemed to believe.

“We both, leave, I suppose,” he said, his voice clearer than he’d expected it to be.

Crowley nodded and turned away to leave, he didn’t need Ligur popping up to see this. It was not until much later that he realised that Aziraphale hadn’t suggested them both staying. His own words echoed back to him, “be easier if we both stayed home.”

He wasn’t sure if this was progress or not.


	12. Love is Merely a Madness

1601 The Globe Theatre, London

It was an easy enough dance once you learned all the steps. Aziraphale knew what he had to say, he had to seem aloof, as if this deal didn’t mean anything to him, and to slowly be brought around to reason by Crowley. As long as he went through the steps of angelic behaviour, it was alright to agree, to take part in this Arrangement of theirs.

But that was just what terrified him. He’d felt the other demon’s presence in Paris. Hell could well be onto Crowley and whatever stubborn point Crowley was trying to make could well be putting him at a terrible risk.

“If Hell found out, they wouldn’t just be angry. They’d destroy you.” Aziraphale hoped that might be enough. He knew what they’d already done was terrible, and stopping now would be far too little, too late. But surely he had to try.

“Nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.” And, oh, there it was, Crowley’s careless smirk. Surely, they had named it ‘devil-may-care’ for him. Aziraphale knew he should stop; it took two to tango and he could end it all, right there. But he also knew he wouldn’t. Not when this was so much easier. Not when this brought him so close to that feeling: the one he could only imagine was how it felt to be alive.

“Fine.” He resumed his part in the dance. “Heads.”

“Tails, I’m afraid. You’re going to Scotland,” Crowley said quickly.

Aziraphale sighed, but he didn’t go on about it. “I should be back in a few weeks,” he said. Before overhearing what Shakespeare was saying . . .

“It’s been like this every performance, Juliet. A complete dud. It’d take a miracle to get anyone to come and see Hamlet.”

It couldn’t hurt to continue their dance, just a little further. Aziraphale looked at Crowley plaintively, already knowing it would work.

“Yeah. All right. I’ll do that one. My treat.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said, despite not being surprised at all.

“I still prefer the funny ones,” Crowley said, sauntering off. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel rather pleased with himself.

* * *

One of these days, Crowley was going to learn how to say ‘no’ to Aziraphale. That day was just absolutely nowhere in the immediate future and probably existed on a different plane of time altogether.

Crowley just sighed to himself and got to work. He’d be fine, no one from Hell had even spoken to him since Paris except for the infernal commendation that had appeared before him about a week after he’d left. Besides, he could always come up with some reason why getting people to watch Hamlet was securing souls for Hell.

But ideally, they’d never find out, and that required more subtlety than just one huge miracle. It would take time. And not because Aziraphale had mentioned that he’d be back in a few weeks. It had nothing to do with that at all. So he started small: The Globe Theatre became just that little bit more noticeable to humans, people who’d dismissed it as just a part of their morning walk were now paying attention with renewed interest.

Shakespeare, of course, was not stupid enough to play this off as good luck. Not when he saw Crowley popping in at every performance to see how well he was doing. It took less than a week for him to approach Crowley to ask him what he thought of the play.

“Honestly, I preferred the one you did last year, Much Ado About Nothing,” Crowley said.

“And yet I see you at every performance of Hamlet since the one you attended with your friend who isn’t your friend,” Shakespeare replied readily.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Shakespeare was smarter than he let on. “Maybe I’m just happy to see your play becoming something of a success,” he said.

“Or maybe you’re the reason for it. A charm of good-fortune if you will,” Shakespeare said.

Crowley snorted, “’A charm of good fortune’? That’s a new one.”

“I can only say based on what I have observed. But in truth, you are the only person to have seen this much of Hamlet other than myself and the players, I would appreciate some of your time, if you can spare it,” Shakespeare said.

Crowley grinned, wondering if this was Shakespeare trying to get more lines out of him. But he had taken a liking to the playwright, he was a clever man and an unconscionable flirt and he somehow managed to make both those traits unbelievable endearing.

They made their way to Shakespeare’s office backstage where Shakespeare uncorked a bottle of wine and poured them each a goblet.

“Are you trying to get my drunk, good playwright?” Crowley said, laughing, “And, if yes, to what end?”

“Not to any end you need fear,” Shakespeare replied, “I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Crowley had a flicker of recognition. He looked closely at Shakespeare’s keen eyes and was reminded instantly of Leonardo. Oh fuck, he thought, he knows. He took a swig from his goblet; he was going to need it.

“Fret not good sir, I am something of an expert on forbidden love myself,” said Shakespeare with a sigh.

“Oh?” Crowley said, “Is it forbidden to be in love with half of London these days?”

“I have done things that would no doubt have me shunned by all decent society if it were ever made public.”

“Who cares what decent society thinks? They have to be the most boring people to ever have lived,” Crowley said, liking Shakespeare more by the minute.

“You care when they control your fortune and your safety.” Shakespeare said, sobering Crowley’s thoughts. True, he didn’t care much what human society thought, but he’d had killed thousands just in France to keep the ‘fortune’ and ‘safety’ of Hell.

“You have a point. D’you ever wonder why we do it?”

“Do what?”

“Fall in love or whatever you want to call it.”

“I think I said it in one of the plays last year: Love is merely a madness,”

“and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so

ordinary that the whippers are in love too.” Crowley finished the quote.

Shakespeare nodded, “There’s no reasoning with it.”

Felling brave, and knowing that he may never again have a change to ask anyone this question, Crowley asked, “Have you ever been so in love that it hurts? That the person is so wonderful you feel like your body might explode? And that when you can’t have them it feels like all the colour in the world has gone away?”

“Yes,” Shakespeare said, surprising Crowley, “I think you’ll find that a great many people have, or think they have anyway. That’s why the romantic plays do so well, people see themselves in them, it’s just humanity.”

Crowley let the gravity of what Shakespeare had said settle in and realised that he really had signed himself up for a lifetime of it, the painful need to be near Aziraphale, and his lifetime could well be eternity.

Over the next few weeks, Hamlet’s popularity increased to the point where people truly didn’t fit into the theatre and Shakespeare and Crowley continued to enjoy drinks every so often to discuss their own unsuccessful endeavours in love. It reminded Crowley of the time he’d spent with Leonardo, except Shakespeare had no clue about his being a demon, or if he did, he said nothing.

Even in a crowded theatre, filled with the wants and secrets of humans, his demonic essence still had no trouble locating Aziraphale, who was looking around with a particularly pleased look on his face. Of course you are, you smug bastard, Crowley thought fondly, this was exactly what you wanted in the first place.

Aziraphale looked around and Crowley realised he was probably looking for him, so he placed himself nearby, steeling himself for how utterly enamoured he was about to be. After weeks of not having to hide it he knew it was going to be a lot to process at once. He could still remember how Aziraphale grabbing his hand in Rome 73 years ago had rendered him effectively speechless for days afterward.

“Oh Crowley this is wonderful!” Aziraphale beamed and there it was, that feeling like Crowley had been both punched in the gut and told the best news of his life all in one.

“Glad you like it,” he said nonchalantly, thank Satan that after 5596 years of covering his crush he’d gotten pretty good at it (not that he was counting). “I’ve got seats in the second tier, if you wanna avoid being crushed.”

He and Aziraphale made their way up the narrow stairs and only just sat down in time for the entrance Barnardo and Francisco to begin the play.

Crowley had seen Hamlet more times now than he cared to count, but seeing it with Aziraphale was something else. Aziraphale reacted to everything on stage like nobody was watching him (and Crowley most certainly was), he gasped at every plot twist despite having seen the play before he’d left for Scotland. Aziraphale even teared up as Hamlet lay dying in Horatio’s arms.

“I die Horatio.” Burbage managed to speak so that his characters dying words could be heard by the whole theatre while it still sounded like a whisper.

Without even having to think about it, Crowley handed Aziraphale his black kerchief.

Crowley whispered Horatio’s lines with him “What is it ye would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.” It reminded him of so many of the times he’d had to rely on disasters to see Aziraphale.

As the play ended, Aziraphale handed Crowley back his kerchief, miracled clean.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale breathed and Crowley savoured the words like they were the finest wine on the planet.

“Anytime, angel,” he said and he meant it.


	13. Unflipped

1611 London

Aziraphale leant over the pages on the manuscript with great care, telling himself that it was not pride that made his face flush, he was simply very pleased to be being consulted on a matter, that could well pertain to Heaven, here on Earth.

“So what do you think, Mr Fell?” Mr Barker, the Royal Printer, asked anxiously, shifting his weight back and forth on his toes.

“It’s a fine translation and a fine binding, Mr Barker, you have certainly earned your title,” Aziraphale replied, closing the large folio before him. The text, large black copperplate read “The King James Bible”.

“Thank you, Mr Fell, that means an awful lot coming from you,” Mr Barker said.

“Nonsense! I shall certainly be calling on you for my copy when you have the first bound editions,” Aziraphale replied.

“You do me a great honour,” Mr Barker said before the door behind them opened.

Aziraphale, who had been to Whitehall Palace on many fortuitous occasions, knew the sound of an entourage when he heard one, and bowed as he turned to face King James I (Or VI if you were Scottish). King James bestowed smiles on both Mr Barker and Aziraphale and approached the book, accompanied by his favourite, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. The two were so seldom seen apart, it would have been more of note had Buckingham not accompanied the King.

“Mr Fell,” the King said, “Do we have your leave to send the King James Bible to the pulpit?”

Aziraphale smiled a touch at his use of the royal ‘we’, after all, it had been an invention of Crowley’s. “You needn’t worry for my humble opinion,” Aziraphale said, thinking that speaking to a king was not unlike speaking to Gabriel, based on the number of minefields you had to avoid, though this king was rather disinclined to killing people for such things, which put him a step above Gabriel. “But by all means it is a fine translation, a true compliment to your majesty.”

“As it should be,” Buckingham said, smiling at the King. Aziraphale hid his smile, those two were about as subtle as a punch in the face, smiling and making eyes at each other every few minutes.

“Well, Mr Fell, since it has your approval, we shall begin distributing them immediately, at your leisure Mr Barker,” King James said, which, of course, meant ‘hurry the fuck up’.

Aziraphale bowed as the royal procession left and cast a quick blessing Mr Barker’s way, the poor man looked like he might combust from stress.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you to your work, Mr Barker,” Aziraphale said kindly.

“Yes,” he agreed, “It’s an awful lot to be doing, and I really don’t have a head for business. Scarlett, my daughter, could outdo me at sums by the time she was ten,” he laughed, mostly to himself and took his leave.

Aziraphale looked up at the ceiling, he’d never been one for high ceilings and large, empty rooms, of which Whitehall palace had a great many. But he did have an appreciation for King James’ Court. Perhaps because he had been barred from attending for so long, but he suspected he would have preferred King James’ Court even if he had been to the many in-between him and Henry IV. There was a great deal of emphasis on study and learning, with King James the proud owner of a very impressive library that Aziraphale spent as much time in as possible. Those itchy ruffs had gone out of fashion as well, replaced with delicate filigree collars that didn’t close around one’s throat, which was a definite plus.

These were the thoughts that occupied him as he made his way back to his chambers (which were really just where he went when the library was in use) where he found a note on the desk and a familiar smoky scent in the air, telling him the letter was from Crowley before he’d given it more than a glance.

_Dear Angel,_

_I’m surprised it took them this long to call you in for this whole Bible thing, they should have done it as soon as they started writing it, after all you’re definitely the most qualified ‘person’ to do it. I know you’re going to tell me that’s meddling in human affairs too much, so don’t worry about writing that back._

_Anyway, I’ll be in London for a bit this week, and if you have the time, Shakespeare’s doing one of his new shows, The Tempest. I know you weren’t a fan of King Lear, but he assures me it’s nothing at all like that one. I’m staying near the Globe again so if you want to see it, just come by. _

_Padua was fine, caused enough chaos to earn a reprieve, so I’m back for a bit of a break._

_See you when I see you, I suppose._

_ \- C_

Ordinarily, when Aziraphale received such a letter, he’d immediately begin penning his response, but with Crowley so close by that seemed a touch pointless. It was a shame, they’d rather gotten the hang of letters recently, and had found that as long as they sent them shortly after reports to head office, they could send them by miracle with little risk of detection. But, Aziraphale supposed that letters could only do so much to compare to real conversation. Aziraphale still found it rather fun, of course, it was like they were playing at being human, talking about their days and jobs as if they weren’t supernatural entities from opposing sides of a Holy war. There were things they couldn’t put into the letters, of course, even when they were immediately destroyed upon reading, the risk was simply too great. They daren’t even sign their names.

The walk down the Thames was pleasant enough if one ignored the waft of sewage. Aziraphale found himself thinking of the last play he had seen; Crowley was right he had not enjoyed King Lear some five years hence. In truth it was because he had known of Crowley’s friendship with the playwright, the story of a child rejected by a parent for no reason but that she pointed out real flaws in his plan. It reminded him far too much of something he had never managed to get Crowley to speak of. It had read like the Fall from a demons perspective.

He stopped by at the Inn where he knew Crowley would be staying, right opposite the Globe.

He reached out with his senses and saw that Crowley was directly upstairs. There were a number of ways he could reach him, he could ask the woman at the bar to fetch him, he could call up the stairs uncouthly. None of those options were as fun as what he decided to do. He directed a quick blessing to the floor beneath Crowley’s feet.

“Ow! Fuck!” He heard Crowley say from upstairs.

“For Satan’s sake, Aziraphale,” Crowley said as he came down the stairs, “there are easier ways to get my attention.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale hummed non-commitally, he had no intention of not trying that again. “I believe,” he said, grinning at Crowley, “that you said something about seeing a play.”

“I did,” Crowley agreed, he seemed to hesitate for a moment, before offering Aziraphale his arm.

Aziraphale, relieved that Crowley had taken his prank with a sense of humour, accepted the arm offered to him and the pair made their way to the Globe.

Aziraphale found that he really liked The Tempest. He found himself rather drawn to Ariel, a character who managed to scare the living daylights out of the immoral characters who had wronged Prospero but had told them they could be free of their curse if they promised to live good lives thereon. Now there was a substantial character: Trapped into service of someone they loved, but still itching for freedom, chafing beneath the restrictions of order.

Aziraphale tried to sneak glances at Crowley during Ariel’s scenes but found it was rather difficult because every time he tried, he found that Crowley was already looking at him. An unfortunate coincidence.

When the play had ended, they both ended up back at Crowley’s inn, sharing tankards of mead in a way that reminded Aziraphale rather a lot of the 14th century, but he knew better than to mention that.

“He reckons it’ll be his last one,” Crowley said to Aziraphale, “at least the last one he does by himself.”

“That’s a shame, but it’s probably smart for him to quit while he’s ahead,” Aziraphale replied.

“That’s what I said,” Crowley said, “He doesn’t want to end up like Leonardo, pages and pages of unfinished work.”

“Does he know about Leonardo?” Aziraphale asked with some trepidation.

“Satan, no!” Crowley answered, “I’m not gonna run around telling humans left and right. Leo just guessed lucky.”

“Probably for the best,” Aziraphale said into his tankard.

“Yeah.” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale smiled at him. He almost couldn’t believe it had been 10 years since he’d last seen him. He pushed aside the thoughts in his mind that berated him for spending so much time with ‘the enemy’. Crowley was hardly an enemy, he was (if Aziraphale was being honest, which was something he tried to do) a friend, and someone with whom Aziraphale had more in common than anyone else on Hell, Heaven, or Earth.

For the first time in a long time, the coins remained unflipped.


End file.
